Stained Moon
by Caranthol
Summary: Man-at-arms Goerfin fights his last battle when Minas Ithil falls to the Witch-King. Rated M for violence.
1. Chapter 1: The Dark Storm

Disclaimer: I don't own anything J

Disclaimer: I don't own anything J.R.R. Tolkien wrote. Goerfin is my original character, as well as most of the other characters.

Chapter 1: The Dark Storm

Harsh war-crys filled the air, as the Orcs attacked once more, thousands of them. They had tried to climb to the walls whole night, the defenders constantly throwing the ladders down along the attackers. Goerfin stared wearily at the nearing mass, checking the chin-strap of his helm. The archers started to shoot, felling many of the foul creatures. Soon, too soon they had to stop, however. The arrows had to be spared, and that meant more work for the men-at-arms. Goerfin drew his sword and prepared for the fight, as the black arrows and sling stones of the enemy rained on battlements.

Soon the first iron hooks, which were used to fasten the ladders, clattered on the top of the wall. Some men rushed to throw them down, but the Orc archers were good shots at night and killed the Gondorians. Goerfin's squad commander, corporal Paurring, walked past him, checking the readiness of his men. The corporal was strangely calm, as usual.But Goerfin scarcely noticed him, for the first siege ladders were raised and the Orcs came up, like a black, poisonous wave, roaring like wild beasts. The first black helm appeared above the brink of the wall. A grey face stared from under it, a furious light in its eyes.

Goerfin leaped forwards, swinging his sword. The Orc could only yell for the last time, as the cold steel hit its neck. Black blood spurted from the wound, and the creature fell, now headless. Judging from the angry shouts from below, it took some of its comrades with it. But many more remained, and they charged up the ladders, caring very little about a few dead "comrades". Goerfin and his comrades managed to kill many on the ladders, but soon the foul enemies leaped upon the battlements in large numbers. A fierce battle ensued, the Men of Gondor fighting with desperate courage. Goerfin was suddenly faced by a large Orc-chieftain, leering hideously and holding a heavy, curved sword. The Orc spat from its mouth in mangled westron:

"Come, filthy tark! I'll gut you!"

Goerfin was afraid, for the Orc was very strong-looking and almost as tall as he. For a second he hesitated, and the Orc rushed towards him, slashing sideways with its weapon. The strike would have beheaded Goerfin, but he managed to crouch just in time. The tip of the sword hit only the left cheek-plate of his helm, the cruel blade drawing some blood from his face. The strike was so powerful, however, that the chinstrap of Goerfin's helm snapped and the helm clattered on the stone. The man was stunned and fell on his knees. The Orc-chief laughed and raised its weapon to kill.

Goerfin's vision was blurred, and a wild terror overtook him. With a desperate effort he thrust his sword up- and forwards, yelling in pain and fear. The blade met something and sunk into it. Something hot and wet splashed against Goerfin's face, and he thrust relentlessly, hearing a chilling shriek. Something clanked beside him, and finally his eyes started to clear. He looked upwards and saw the face of the Orc, no longer jeering, but full of pain and anger. Goerfin twisted his sword viciously, his teeth bared. The creature tried to grasp the blade which had sunk deeply in its stomach, but its claws were rapidly weakening. It let out a last furious yell and began to fall backwards, red eyes glazed. Its efforts to remain on its feet were in vain, and the Orc crashed on the stones, black liquid flowing from the hideous wound. It writhed for some time feebly and was then silent.

Goerfin felt somebody grabbing his arm and turning his head he saw Gildinir, a young sandy-haired lad from his squad. The young man hauled Goerfin to his feet and asked nervously, concern in his grey eyes:

"Are you all right? I saw you fall."

Goerfin only nodded, his head still somewhat dizzy. He smiled to the lad. Gildinir was only seventeen, but he and Goerfin were fast friends. At thirty-four, the latter regarded the boy as something like a little brother. In this cauldron of witch, unlikely friendships bloomed as the comrades and family were the only consolations. But now there was no time to talk more, as more Orcs rushed towards them, yellow teeth bared and mouths almost foaming. The lad let go of Goerfin's arm and raised his shield. Goerfin did the same, holding his sword firmly.

The first Orc ran straight into the blade of Gildinir, falling to the ground. The others followed, and for some time the two men were hard put to it to survive. Goerfin felt a red rage surging in him and snarled at the enemies:

"You bastards, you won't have me today!"

He couldn't control himself anymore, but charged the group of four Orcs fighting them. He hacked the heads and limbs of the Orcs, not heeding his own safety at all. For a moment nothing mattered but killing as many Orcs as possible before his own death. The enemies were taken by surprise by this solitary onslaught, and two of them fell in a moment. The third turned to run, but a shove from Goerfin's shield sent it down from the walls, where it hit the ground over thirty feet lower.

The fourth was more cunning, and kept its head calm. It danced backwards, narrowly avoiding the strikes of the infuriated Man. Suddenly it leaped forwards, bearing its shield on Goerfin's face. The impact made him sway, and the Orc prepared to kill. Suddenly, however, it was pierced by a sword and fell, choking in its own blood. Wiping his eyes, Goerfin saw that his saviour was Paurring this time. The corporal yelled over the tumult:

"Prepare for the next wave! Find your bloody helm!"

Goerfin looked around him and saw that almost all the Orcs on the walls had been killed and all the ladders thrown down. He picked his dented helm up and peered cautiously over the parapet. New battalions of Orcs marched towards the walls, torches illuminating their black and brown garments and their evil faces. This time the assault would be even greater than the previous. But now the archers of Gondor could pelt the nearing enemy with the arrows its own bowmen had shot.

They had to take again cover from the flying missiles, watching helplessly as new ladders appeared above the battlements. When the hail of arrows ended, the men-at-arms jumped up. In pairs they picked up the revolting corpses of their enemies and threw them down from the walls. Many enemies were thrown from the ladders and many more were injured below, as their comrades and the dead bodies fell upon them. Some men of Gondor now attacked the ladders with axes and sent them also down. The resulting tumult was almost deafening, the Orcs shrieking in pain or rage. Only few of them managed to climb up, for in the hail of the grim missiles their own numbers were now a hindrance.

The first light of dawn rose over the Ephel Dúath, and the Orcs finally retreated after a final volley of arrows. The defenders collapsed on the cold stone, thoroughly exhausted. Goerfin panted heavily, trembling all over. Somebody put a little piece of bread in his hand, a quarter of the daily bread ration. He ate it absent-mindedly, blinking in the growing light. All men were too tired even to rejoice that most of them were still alive. Some of them conversed in low voices, their faces grey and frighteningly old-looking for young men. Gildinir, who sat next to Goerfin, gasped:

"How long can we endure? It has been now two years, and no aid is coming."

"We have just to fight on. Or do you want to surrender to them?" asked Goerfin wearily. The young man shook his head. They were silent for some time, until corporal Paurring came to speak to them.

"You may go to sleep now, our squad's watch is only late in the afternoon. The next meal is given to you at noon." He looked at the blood-stained form of Goerfin and went on:

"Goerfin, I know you are tired, but if you can, try to clean your surcoat and your face. It is unhealthy to have Orc-blood smearing your clothes or wounds."

Suddenly Goerfin burst into a grim laugh.

"Unhealthy? If you say so, corporal." He rose wearily to his feet and strode away, still laughing. Paurring looked after him, worried by the cold ring of Goerfin's voice.

--

Like many times before, Goerfin walked to a garden in the second circle of the city. He sat under an old oak, holding his head between his hands. His thoughts were black, when he remembered the last two years. It had been rumoured for over a decade that the Witch-King who had been defeated in the North had gone to Mordor and prepared now for war again. But there were too few men to guard the passes of the black land, too few since the Great Plague hundreds of years ago. Some brave scouts who had climbed up to Cirith Ungol had told that the tower there housed now Orcs, and that more were coming.

But there was little what could be done. A great storage of food and arms had been prepared and many of the women and children had been sent westwards. But it was too late. Suddenly the war broke out, its first sign a black storm cloud rising from the east. The Orcs had poured down from the Cirith Ungol. On the bridge and in Imlad Ithil there had been a fierce battle, but at last the men of Gondor had been driven back to the city. A fear had fallen on them, as the fell King had ridden before them, with his eight companions. Goerfin still shivered when he remembered the terror of seeing the wraiths. Their voice had been as hard as steel and cold as death, when they had cried out, encouraging the Orcs and cursing the Men of the West in their evil language.

They had fled to the city. After that the only thing what could be done was bar the gate with great stones and strong wooden beams and prepare for the assault. The King Eärnil had promised help, using the palantir, but the enemy was very strong. All roads to the Tower of Moon were guarded and every attempt to raise the siege had been repulsed. The only thing Goerfin could be pleased of was that his parents had moved to Minas Anor six months before the attack. He himself had stayed because his business in silver-smithing had gone very well, the people of Ithilien loving the metal which reminded them of the moon. He had been drafted just a month before the attack, along the other able-bodied men. Thoughtfully he stroked his reddish brown hair.

Then he leaned back against the tree, closing his eyes as painful memories flooded him. He saw in his mind a golden hair, green eyes and a lovely mouth, smiling gently at him. Lóthwen... She had been the most important reason for him staying. His business, everything, was a small matter compared to his betrothed. Having already been content to live without marrying, he had suddenly met her. He had been thirty already and she only twenty-two. But somehow they sensed that they were very similar in the things they loved and in their way of thinking. Both were quite solitary, preferring a few close friends to a large crowd of aqcuaintances. Lóthwen had been wonderful at embroidering, and Goerfin had modelled some of his jewelry on the dream-like patterns she had sewn on clothes. The memory of giving her a silver pin, formed like a wondrous flower with heart-shaped leaves, came to Goerfin and for a moment he forgot his grief. The pin had been perhaps tasteless, but she had took it smiling and thanking him with a kiss.

--

They walked in the garden, sun shining brightly. The leaves were opening, and birds sang their courting songs in every tree. Scent of flowers filled the air. Lóthwen had indeed seemed like a golden flower in this garden, surrounded by the awakening spring.

"It is so beautiful, Goerfin! You shouldn't have..."

"Oh, it was nothing."

She blushed, embracing him. He couldn't resist but touched her lips with his own. They almost trembled, their faces blushing. Lóthwen had pushed him gently away after a while.

"Don't think I am rude, but we must stop. It is not proper."

"Yes, I know, it is three months still before our wedding. I understand."

With a little difficulty he calmed his racing blood. He opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly Lóthwen exclaimed:

"Look at the sky! There, in the east!"

They watched as a cloud, greater mountains and blacker winter nights rose above Ephel Dúath, the black stone looming threatening below it. Lightnings flashed, and a great wind rose. Goerfin turned to take Lóthwen in his embrace but she was nowhere to be seen. The garden had changed to the battlements of the walls and he stood alone, listening to the sigh of the wind. Moon rose, but it was not beautiful silver as usual, but sickly white, its light frightening. Black specks appeared on its surface, growing larger and larger until the crescent disappeared. The wind died and a black rain fell down, drenching Goerfin.

--

He sat up, sweating heavily. He looked around him, bewildered. Chill rainwater dropped from the branches of the oak. His eyes gazed the trees in the garden. It was late autumn and the leaves had dropped, leaving only empty branches reaching to the sky, as if praying for mercy. He rose to leave and looked down on his surcoat. Suddenly he shivered. The silver crescent sewn on his chest was stained by black blood.


	2. Chapter 2: Despair Growing

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Chapter 2: Despair Growing

Goerfin peered over a rock, watching movements in the Orc camp. Seeing only a few sentries here and there, blinking in the sunlight, he signed with his hand and twenty men crawled nearer. Wearing black or brown cloaks they blended in the trampled ground. Almost all of the men wore an Orkish helm as a disguise. Corporal Paurring crawled next to Goerfin, whispering:

"What can you see? Can we attack?"

"The sentries are dazed by the sun and are few. None of the Men are outside the tents."

"Good."

Paurring motioned to the others and they crawled towards the camp, using stones and scarce bushes as a cover. Goerfin was pleased that the enemy army consisted almost wholly of Orcs. It made sallies like this much more easy, as the Orcs couldn't see well in daytime and were weaker. In the enemy camp there were some Men, mostly Black Numenoreans and Khandians as higher officers, but they had to sleep sometimes and the day was the only opportunity to do so, as the nights were spent in attacks.

Now the platoon was only some twenty yards from the camp. It was noon, and they could see an Orc sentry, breathing heavily and seemingly suffering in the heat of the noon. The other guards were a furlong away. The enemy still didn't bother to guard its camp efficiently, despite the constant sallies from the city. Paurring crawled to Goerfin.

"Handle that sentry. Remember, no noise."

Goerfin nodded and crawled until he was next to a large tent. The Orc didn't see him and the tent protected him from observation from farther away. He rose, drawing his knife and concealing it in his sleeve. He walked leisurely around the corner, though his heart beat furiously. In a moment he was facing the sentry, only five yards away.

The Orc couldn't see the face of the approaching figure, only a black helm and cloak. It wiped its eyes and gripped its scimitar firmer. It cursed its parched mouth in its mind when it croaked:

"Halt, who are you and why are you moping around here?"

Goerfin saw the sallow face of the sentry, and stepped closer. The Orc's eyes were even redder than usual and watery. When he heard the challenge of the guard, Goerfin knew his disguise worked. He tried to make his voice as guttural and harsh as possible when answering in garbled westron:

"Just taking a leak, don't be so bossy!"

The Orc wiped its eyes again, trying to see the face before it. But Goerfin had smeared his features with black coal, and in the aching eyes of the sentry he looked just like a tall Orc. The sentry relaxed somewhat and said gruffly:

"There's plenty of latrines, you moron! No need to piss on the tents."

Goerfin slided the knife in his hand and stepped still closer. Suddenly the Orc seemed to realize that he was an enemy, and opened its mouth to cry. The sound never got out, however, for Goerfin stabbed the Orc swiftly in its throat, twisting the knife. The sentry collapsed to the ground, gurgling and writhing. Goerfin turned and whistled quietly. The other men sneaked to him.

Quietly they divided in two and slipped to to the tents. They had guessed properly, this was the part of the camp where the food and equipment was stored. They packed their sacks full of such food which seemed to be fit for Men. Every man had his sack full, and they were just leaving, when a cry was heard:

"What are you doing here, stealing, huh? Put everything back and slink to your tents or I'll call one of the Black Ones!"

Goerfin wheeled around and saw a muscular Man, clad in a fur cloak and crude hauberk. Judging from his features and not-so-impressive height he was a Khandian. The man stood some dozens of yards away and clearly thought them to be Orcs. Suddenly the man's eyes widened, however, and he shouted:

"The enemy!"

He put a horn on his lips and blew a mighty blast. A bow sang, and the Khandian dropped the horn, bending almost double as he tucked at the arrow protruding from his neck. The Gondorians turned to flee, just as the first Orcs ran from their tents, cursing and blowing horns.

The patrol ran fast while the Orc archers shot wildly in their direction. They blessed the sun, for no one was hit. Only cavalry could have overtaken them, but the Witch-King had sent almost all the horses to the detachment guarding the Crossroads. After a half an hour the patrol reached the postern gate from which they had come. It was cunningly hidden in the wall, a masterpiece of Numenorian stonework. Only when open could its outlines be distinguished from the tightly joined stones. Seeing the patrol coming, a sentinel opened the gate and they hurried in.

--

Night came again, and the moon rose. Goerfin was in guard at the walls and watched the dreary plain below him. It bathed in silvery light, both from the moon and the city. For Minas Ithil was made of white marble which caught the rays of moon and reflected them. Goerfin turned for a moment and looked at the city. In three circles it rose, high walls encircling the levels. Out of the topmost level a tall tower rose, shining brightly in the night. The walls below were dimmer, but emanated a soft light nonetheless. Proud was the city, a sentinel against Mordor. The tower still stood defiantly, daring the enemies to come. Against the dark background of Ephel Dúath the city was like a lone star in a winter night.

Goerfin felt his heart leaping. Minas Ithil could not fall, so magnificent were the walls and battlements, the work of masons of old. If only the men kept their courage and held fast, the enemy would be defeated. Help would come, King Eärnil couldn't possibly stop trying to relieve them.

But then he felt the emptiness of his stomach. The stone walls may well endure, they didn't have to eat to be able to stand. The supplies were rapidly declining, the food captured in sallies being of little help. Women and children were already starving and some had died during the summer. His thought once again wandered to Lóthwen. It was a little consolation that she at least had died quickly, not gradually withering from lack of food... He shook his head, concentrating on his task. The tower gleamed behind him, as his weary eyes scanned the plain.

--

After noonmeal, Goerfin walked to the first circle of the city. He stopped before a pile of broken stone, which had once been a beautiful house. He stood there, recalling the first days of the siege. The enemy had built many siege engines and bombarded Minas Ithil for two days. Then they had stopped, and after seeing that the walls could stand even the heaviest missiles, taken the engines away. The enemy commander seemed to want to take the city without destroying it, it was thought.

The bombardment had not killed many, but among the dead was one Goerfin cared more about than anybody else. He had hurried to this house after the first hail of stones had ceased. But he had seen only this ruin, Lóthwen lying limply among the rubbish, half buried. He had rushed to dig her out, calling her name. But after she was uncovered and Goerfin looked at her more closely, he saw that she was dead. Her face had been strangely almost unharmed, but her ribs and spine were broken and the lifeless body had felt more like a heavy rag doll than a human being.

For a long time Goerfin had kneeled there, holding his betrothed. In his grief he hadn't been able to even weep. At last he had closed the staring, glazed eyes and put a last kiss on the cold lips. Then he had risen and buried her, his heart cold and a growing hate eating him from inside. That night he had killed his first Orc, enjoying the pained shriek of it. But no amount of blood could drown his sorrow, and finally he had been horrified seeing his own heart grow blacker. Now he wept before the ruin, only tears somewhat healing the pain.

Gildinir came to him, laying his hand on Goerfin's shoulder. Goerfin didn't even turn, but just stood there, overcome by emotion. Gildinir was silent, his hand feeling steady and soothing. Finally the young man spoke.

"Do not weep. I know we can't be sure, but I think you will see her yet again."

"Yes, after I have been killed. If I could be sure, I would throw my life gladly away. What a cruel fate it is to have to see one's beloved die! I wanted to follow her, but I couldn't then. Now all that is left is to wait until we are defeated and then, only emptiness."

Gildinir was depressed by his friend's black mood.

"We will not be overcome. The commander still has the palantir, and King Eärnil constantly assures us that the relief is coming."

Goerfin tore himself away, his eyes blazing.

"They all lie! The King cares about us as much as about a pile of crap! Our death is near, and you know it!"

With a curse he ran away, and Gildinir couldn't stop him. He didn't see Goerfin until at evening, when the older man came to him. He was now calmer and said:

"Forget what I said. Some of us have to keep still their hope, don't lose your own."

--

A week passed, with Orcs assaulting every night and two times even at day. Every time the black tide was thrown back, but the ranks of the defenders grew thinner and thinner. Food also became scarcer and by the end of the week they had daily only one little piece of bread each. The women and children had to be without any, for now the most important thing was to keep the soldiers standing and able to fight.

For Goerfin the week passed in dull stupor. Sleeplessness and hunger made him stagger, but still he fought on. Nothing mattered to him anymore. With empty mind he smote the Orcs and slumbered whenever the attack ceased for a moment. All that seemed to be left in the life was suffering and fighting. Even the thought of nearing death didn't make Goerfin fear. He didn't understand why he didn't just lay down and die. His comrades were all in as bad shape as himself. Looking at them he saw pale or ashen faces, eyes staring dully deep in their sockets. Black blood smeared them all over, but they didn't even notice it or the horrid reek around them.

For most of the week the defenders heard the sounds of hammers and axes from the enemy camp, beating day and night. The observers in the Tower reported that great engines were being built and more Orcs poured from Cirith Ungol. The chilling wind carried noise of marching and shouts to the walls. It was evident that the enemy prepared for a final attack and they were doomed. The Witch-King had seen that the time was ripe and grasped his opportunity with an iron grip.


	3. Chapter 3: The Last Stand

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Chapter 3: The Last Stand

The day went mostly without an incident, but in late afternoon a sentinel shouted from the walls:

"They are coming!"

The men rushed to battlements and looked on the plain. From the enemy camp a great dust rose, and from the cloud rolled huge siege towers. The men could see thousands of Orcs pulling the towers and the officers watching with whips. Many of the Orcs collapsed and fell to the ground, but the whips crackled and slowly the towers came forward. They stopped just out of bowshot, the enemy host forming behind them. The Orcs were silent, some laying down, waiting the nightfall.

Suddenly the defenders saw a few horsemen riding towards the gate under the usual tokens of a parley. Some of the archers would have shot at them, but the officers restrained them. Goerfin saw that the ambassadors were all Black Numenoreans, grim black-haired men clad in steel. They stopped some ten yards of the walls and shouted:

"Where is your commander? We want to speak with him."

General Orgostion, who commanded Minas Ithil, was speedily brought to the walls. He cried to the ambassadors:

"I am the commander here. What do you want of me?"

"Our Lord sends you a message, o General: 'Your situation is hopeless. Surrender the city and you will be treated with honour. You will be granted leave to go safely whither you will with your wives and children after you have surrendered your weapons and vowed never to try to regain the city.'"

Orgostion seemed to ponder for a while, his head bent. The tallest of the ambassadors said haughtily:

"Do not think too long, old man! The King's patience is limited and your time grows short. Behold our might, and see if you can stand against it!"

Orgostion raised his head, his eyes blazing.

"Your so-called King is a foul liar and a coward. Let him himself come to claim Minas Ithil as his own! We shall see if he is still as fast to flee as in the North, last time he met the soldiers of Gondor!"

The ambassador's face darkened with fury.

"You old crow, you will regret your cawing when He comes and rips your filthy tongue out! I promise, it will be soon. None of you will see the dawn, for you have defied our Lord!"

Orgostion laughed grimly.

"Perhaps it is so, but many of you will fall before that. I will speak with your commander only with the tip of my sword! Go now, and fast, or I command my bowmen to shoot!"

The ambassadors wheeled round and galloped towards the Orc host. The Gondorians cheered and shook their fists at the enemy, heartened by their commander's relentless manner. Goerfin looked at Orgostion in awe. The general stood above the gate like a statue, his grey hair blazing red in the setting sun. The old man held his sword in his hand, gazing calmly across the plain. The enemy was still silent, the siege towers not moving.

--

The darkness fell, but for some time there was not a sound. The men on the walls stood and whispered nervously to each other. A cold fear creeped to Goerfin's mind and he almost hoped that the enemy would finally attack. The moon had not risen yet and nothing could be seen in the darkness.

Then, suddenly, a great cry rose from the enemy ranks. Loud horns were blown, and the Orcs let out a deafening cry. But above all noise rose an unearthly, piercing cry. Goerfin had to cover his ears when he heard that sound. It had been terrifying enough in Imlad Ithil in broad daylight, but now it was almost unbearable. The cry was repeated, this time from several sources. The sound was horrible, cold and full of malice. Dark forms moved on the other side of the plain, slowly coming towards the walls. Whips crackled and war-chants echoed from stones. The Witch-King was coming with his host.

The moon rose and the city began to glow. In the faint light Goerfin saw the huge towers were rolling onwards. The archers of Gondor released the first volley, felling many Orcs. But when one fell, two others took its place. Some of the enemies raised big wooden shields, carrying them before the ranks. The deadly hail of arrows still bit many, but to no avail. Some archers tried to set fire to the towers with flaming arrows, but they were wetted well and the only reward was the laughter of the Orcs. The enemy came nearer and nearer. Goerfin looked to his right side, seeing Gildinir sweating heavily. He grasped the young man's shoulder.

"Keep hope, Gildinir! Don't give up to fear!"

The lad looked him with a white face and pained eyes.

"This is the end! You were right, Goerfin."

The older man shook his friend.

"Perhaps I was, but you heard what the general said! Take your sword and steel yourself!"

Gildinir only nodded, drawing his blade and looking at it. The steel glimmered in the moonlight. The lad ran his finger along the blade.

"You are still sharp. May you bite deep!" he said to the sword.

Goerfin was relieved to see Gildinir to regain his senses. He checked his own sword and tightened his belt and the chin-strap of his helm. His face was hard as stone when he looked the nearing Orcs, still holding Gildinir's shoulder.

The first arrows flew over the parapet and they ducked. The siege-towers rolled ever nearer, the sound of their wheels a frightening rumble. The defenders listened in terror the cries of the Orcs, now mingled with the fell voices of the Ring-wraiths. Some of the men wept in despair, but still grasping their swords. Goerfin peered over the wall and saw the wraiths among the sea of dark steel and blazing torches. They rode slowly onwards, letting a cry out now and then. Foremost was the King himself, a black crown of steel on top of his high helm. Goerfin felt cold and wanted to hide, but the terror riveted him to where he was. The siege-towers were nearly on the walls and the Witch-King rode before the barred gate of the city. Goerfin watched, his heart beating, when the wraith stopped and rose in his stirrups. Holding a black sword aloft, the King chanted words of power, red lights blazing from the cracks of his helm. A flame went up the blade as the wraith uttered dreadful words in an unknown tongue.

Goerfin sweated and bit his lips so hard that they bled. But he didn't even notice that, so terrifying was the sight before him. The Witch-King seemed to be looking straight at him, although he repeated to himself that it was folly to think so. The wraith ended his spell with a chilling cry, and many of the defenders fell to the stones, feebly writhing in fear. The first towers had reached the walls and their ramps crashed on the stones, Orcs pouring out of them.

The defenders regained their senses and leapt to their feet, smiting the black tide once more. Many of the Orcs rolled on the white stone, but more and more came. Goerfin stood side to side with Gildinir, corporal Paurring guarding their back. The battle raged all around them and they had hard time to survive as Orcs attacked them. The first opponent went down when Goerfin hit it to its head. With a clang its helm was cleaved and the blade cut its head in two. Without sound the Orc fell backwards, hindering the next attacker. Gildinir rushed onwards, slashing in a wide arc with his weapon. The second Orc had only a leather jerkin for armour, so its chest was cut open. Gurgling and shrieking it swayed, until a second hit felled it. Meanwhile, Paurring was wrestling with a large Orc. In the pressure of the combatants there was no room to use a sword, so Paurring grasped his opponent by the neck, relentlessly pushing its head backwards. The Orc tried to claw his hands, but the corporal didn't let go. He only released his right hand, hitting the Orc in the forehead with his mailed fist. Bones cracked, and the creature went limp, its head hanging in a strange fashion.

After a while it seemed that the attack was weakening, and the Gondorians already hoped they had repulsed the Orcs once more. But then, out of the siege towers the Nazgûl strode, their King foremost. They were silent, but still frightening. Goerfin looked at the Witch-King who walked towards him, a naked sword in hand. The Gondorians cowered in terror as the wraiths slowly advanced. It seemed to Goerfin that his sight narrowed, blackening at the edges. Even the glow of the white marble dimmed under the steel boots of the Nine. Time seemed to stop for a while. But then, the Nazgûl attacked the defenders with a cry, holding black maces and swords aloft.

Goerfin saw the dreadful King rush towards him, extending a hand to grab him. With a shriek of terror Goerfin turned and fled, seeing his comrades to run also. They almost fell down the stairs leading from the walls. The Witch-King cried once more, and Goerfin was sure he would die. The wraiths remained on the walls, laughing coldly. Even the laughter was so terrifying that Goerfin increased his speed, trying to get to safety. All around him men ran, panting and stumbling in panic.

--

They stopped only after they had reached the second circle of the city. Goerfin dropped to the ground, exhausted. He panted heavily, his fear only gradually easing. He sat up and looked around. Beside him laid Gildinir, and Paurring a small distance away. Relieved to see his friends, he helped Gildinir up. They only looked at each other, speaking nothing.

They helped to bar the gate with great oak beams and climbed to the walls. The triumphant shouts of the Orcs were heard, and their black mail and surcoats were seen all over the streets of the first circle. A lull of over an hour ensued, however, for the enemy had to clear the main gate for the reinforcements and regroup before resuming the assault.

Goerfin looked down from the walls, scanning the first circle with his eyes. His gaze stopped when he saw Orcs felling the trees in the garden in which Lóthwen was buried. The trees swayed and fell to the ground with a crash, their branches bare and black. Suddenly Goerfin wept, for the defiling of the fair Minas Ithil, and for the fate of him and Lóthwen. He was not the only one. Many men were in tears, some knotting their fists as they heard the high shrieks of the women and children from below. Some had been left to the first circle and were now in the tender mercy of the Orcs. Goerfin could only hope that their end would be fast. He stopped weeping and listened with growing hatred the raucous laughter and clang of axes from below. Beside him, Paurring shook his fist in impotent rage. A wordless sound came from the corporal's throat, resembling a trapped wolf.

Eventually the enemy attacked once more, having battering rams with them. The last archers shot constantly, and black blood flowed freely on the streets. The Orcs didn't care about their losses, however, but came on, carrying tree-trunks. The wraiths once more rode among the ranks, the Orcs cowering in terror when they came near. After one of the Nine had passed, however, they seemed to be even more furious than before.

At last the arrows were all spent and a team of dozens of Orcs could advance to the gate with a massive trunk of an oak. The defenders pelted them with stones, but to no avail, as shields protected them. The hail of stones stopped when the Witch-King rode nearer. The wraith once more began to chant a spell. The battering ram hit for the first time. The hinges of the gate creaked but held. The fell King raised his hands, uttering the words louder. The ram hit again. Two of the hinges burst and the gate began to yield. For the third time the Nazgûl spoke, this time crying the words of power aloud. The ram hit the gate once more. The beams supporting it broke, the doors shattered and fell to the stones, clanging deafeningly.

The Orcs poured in and in the courtyard before the broken gate a desperate fight began. Many Men fell, but the Orcs also suffered fearful losses, being tightly close to each other. During the fight Goerfin saw that an Orc smote Gildinir who fell to his knees. Yelling in fury Goerfin attacked the Orc, bearing his sword down on its head. Its helm was of better make than usual and the sword broke. Such was the force of the strike, however, that the creature reeled on its feet, eyes rolling. Goerfin pushed it against a wall and hit its foul face with the pommel of his sword until it became a bloodied mass. The Orc fell and Goerfin picked Gildinir to his shoulders, carrying the unconscious lad towards the third circle of Minas Ithil.

--

He was just in time, for the Nazgûl didn't waste time now but charged through the gate, trampling Men and even some Orcs under hooves. The Gondorians had to retreat. They hadn't time to bar the gates to the third circle, but fought the enemy step by step in the narrow streets. One by one they were killed, the black flood running over their corpses, and only a small group reached the Citadel, the innermost part of the city.

Through this chaos Goerfin carried Gildinir, determined not to leave him to the enemy. He swayed through the gate to the citadel, setting Gildinir on the stairs of the Tower. The lad regained his consciousness and sat up painfully. Goerfin checked his wounds but saw only that his helm was dented. Goerfin breathed deeply in relief and helped his friend up. They saw that a last stand was made at the gate, general Orgostion fighting among the men-at-arms. The general's grey hair was stained by blood, but he still dealt mighty strikes with his long sword. But finally a stone hit his forehead, and the general fell.

Goerfin and the still somewhat reeling Gildinir rushed to the gate. Goerfin stooped and saw that the old man didn't breathe any more. He picked up the general's sword and joined the fray. He noticed that corporal Paurring was still on his feet and fighting with them. Many Orcs died, but the pressure of the enemy was too great and step by step they were forced to the door of the Tower. Only ten men remained when they stood at the doorway with grim faces. The enemy attacked again.

--

They were forced to the inside of the Tower, to the staircase going up. Slowly they climbed upwards, smiting the enemy who tried to force its way to the top of the Tower. The Orcs shrieked but the Men fought in silence, killing dozens of their opponents. Every now and then some bold enemy managed to get its strike through, and yet another Man of Gondor toppled down the stairs.

At last they were pushed to the top, now only Goerfin, Paurring and Gildinir alive. There was a narrow corridor behind them, leading to the room with the palantír. They ran to the room and stopped in the doorway. Two Orcs tried to enter but were killed. To the surprise of the Men others didn't follow, but the enemy staid in the stairway. Paurring said, recovering his breath:

"Men, we should try to destroy the Stone. The general ordered so, in the case it is in danger to be captured." Goerfin asked:

"But how are we supposed to do that? Can it be broken?"

"The general died just after he had said it cannot be broken for example by throwing it from heights," Paurring shrugged.

"However, we must try."

Goerfin looked over his shoulder into the room. It was round, and in the middle there stood a pedestal on which the black Stone gleamed in the moonlight. Great mirrors hung on the walls, magnifying the silvery light, so that in the room it was almost as bright as in daytime. On the floor around the pedestal the phases of the moon were set in thin silver plates. The setting moon looked in from a high window, its rays playing on the mirrors and the silver.

Before they could do anything, a noise was heard from the stairs. The Orcs spoke to each other in low voices and moved. Two tall Men strode in the corridor, clad in mail and high helms and holding long swords. With a war-cry the two charged towards the Gondorians.

Goerfin, Gildinir and Paurring were able to parry the first onslaught, and a prolonged swordfight ensued. They were forced back into the room, parrying and thrusting with their weapons. The attackers were seemingly masters with their swords, and soon Paurring received the death-blow. His neck was hit and he toppled to the floor without a word. Gildinir shouted and stabbed the attacker in the side. He let his guard down, however, and the other Man let his sword fall on Gildinir's head. The lad's helm broke, sparks flying, and Gildinir fell, blood flowing freely.

The attacker now slashed in a wide arc, trying to reach Goerfin, but the Gondorian managed to avoid the blade by leaping backwards. He retreated, until the pedestal was between him and the enemy. For a while neither moved, and Goerfin looked at the man more closely. The enemy had black hair and grey eyes, the marks of high Dunadan descent. The Black Numenorean's eyes were cold and cruel, and a disdainful smile played on his lips. He spoke, making a strange movement with his fingers:

"Why do not you surrender? All your friends are dead, no one can blame you, if you can't fight alone against an army. What do you say? You could enter my service, I need always valiant servants. The Darkness is stronger than your so-called Valar, and beyond it there is nothing. Why not yield to it? You could have servants and strong runes would be at your use, if you can harness their power."

Goerfin hesitated. The words sounded sincere, and looking at the eyes of the man, his thoughts were blurred. There was something in the gaze of the enemy that made him almost to believe him. The Black Numenorean's voice was clear and soft, perhaps too soft. Goerfin retreated a little and stumbled. Swaying, he had to tear his gaze from the eyes of the enemy. He saw the limp bodies of his friends and remembered the cries of the women in the first circle of the city. The picture of Lóthwen came to him, too. He laughed, his voice harsh and mirthless.

"You lie, you traitor to your own people! Try your spells elsewhere, for you can't ensnare me!"

The Black Numenorean smiled coldly.

"I see."

With a speed of a striking snake the enemy leaped forwards, stabbing Goerfin in the chest. The Gondorian felt pain piercing him, the rings of his hauberk breaking easily. His sword fell from his grasp, clattering on the floor. He leaned forwards, trying to steady himself on the pedestal. Blood flowed from his mouth as he coughed, staining the palantír. He saw a fire inside the Stone growing when the red stains appeared on its surface. His grasp failed and he fell heavily on his back. He tried to struggle against the pain but breathing was increasingly difficult. From his wound a red stream ran, smearing the image of full moon.

--

At first his vision was unclear, a silver haze was covering everything. But then the veil was lifted and he saw Lóthwen in the moonlight, across a black chasm. Over it ran a slender bridge. Lóthwen was in a bridal dress, flowers crowning her head. She beckoned to him:

"Come, my love!"

He answered with difficulty:

"I… I cannot."

"You can. Do not struggle, but let the pain go. Come to me."

Goerfin saw her turn. He leaped over the bridge, his pain having disappeared. He embraced his betrothed, looking her deep in her eyes. Lóthwen wrapped her arms around him, and they stood there silently. The moonlight gave way to a bright shine which engulfed them, and he could see no more.

--

The first glimmer of dawn illuminated the eastern sky, and the Black Numenorean took his helm off. He looked at the corpses and wondered why the last one smiled. He shrugged. Probably only a last attempt to grimace before death. It had been amusing to play a little with this man. The fool had really thought for a moment that he would let him live.

He turned and wiped the palantír clean of blood. Suddenly he felt a familiar feeling of dread growing in him. He raised his face and saw the Witch-King striding into the room. The man bowed, when the wraith spoke:

"I see you have executed my orders, Panardu."

"Yes, Lord. I saw to that no Orc entered the room. The Seeing-stone is safe."

"'Tis well. You will have your reward."

Panardu stepped aside when the Witch-King came to the pedestal, looking in the depths of the Stone. Both were silent for a while, but then the Witch-King spoke, without looking up from the palantír:

"Throw the corpses to your Orcs. They have deserved a little treat."

--

Read and review, please. The name Panardu is in Adunaic, meaning something like "Hand of the Soldier".


End file.
